


a very Poindexter christmas

by poindextears



Series: Good Haven universe [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Backstory, Christmas Special, Family History, Family Member Death, Gen, Historical AU, World War II, the Poindexter family is huge, this just gets sadder as it goes along
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 00:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21988267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poindextears/pseuds/poindextears
Summary: Historical AU! This is Dex's backstory inlove finds you, a much longer fic of mine that's in progress.5 good old-fashioned Poindexter family Christmases, and one Christmas that was different.(This gets sadder as it goes along. You were warned.)
Series: Good Haven universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1582840
Comments: 6
Kudos: 67





	a very Poindexter christmas

**Author's Note:**

> What you’re about to read is a series of Dex’s family Christmases over the years, set in a historical AU. I wanted to write a Christmas special, but [the story this is backstory for](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22089940/chapters/52718095) doesn’t take place at Christmas, so I worked backwards in Dex’s life. Enjoy!

_ i. _

_ December 1935 _

William Poindexter looks out the window, watching the biggest winter storm he’s ever seen.

He knew it’d be a doozy. It’s all they’ve talked about on the radio for days, bearing down on the whole East Coast, from New York to Nova Scotia. The storm of the season, they’re saying. Though it’s barely past sunset, a thick blanket of white coats his entire yard, from the farm barn to the front steps, and it’s coming down fast.

The whole town is shut down. Good Haven may be small and self-sufficient, but no one in their right mind messes with a storm this big. Businesses have all closed early; the schools are all cancelled tomorrow; families have retreated into their homes to hunker down and hope for the best. And it’s not just his own town— at the shipyard today, the oncoming weather was all anybody could talk about. William managed to get off early enough to come home before the worst of it began. It’s only thirty minutes on the bus to Bar Harbor, but with the walks between home, the bus stations, and the shipyard, it’s about an hour and a half of travel time.

But he’s home now, safe and sound, and there’s snow piling up in his yard faster than he can even keep track of. The house is mostly warm, and there’s a Christmas record on, spinning faintly against the sound of his wife bustling around the kitchen.

“Mar?” He cranes his neck at the window. Dark has fallen, and the lighting in the yard is poor; they’re trying to conserve energy, to keep the bills low. He can’t quite guess how many inches have fallen since his last shovel job, an hour or so ago, when he got home from the shipyard. “Do you think I oughta go shovel again?”

When Mary Beth doesn’t answer right away, he turns around. She’s at the kitchen counter, baking— or at least that’s what he thinks she’s doing, even though Christmas is two weeks out. A pot of soup steams on the old stove, their dinner that’s not quite ready. Mary Beth wears a tattered apron and a hand-me-down green dress; it was her’s ma’s, over two decades ago. Old as it be, it’s one of the only things that fits her now. She’s nine months pregnant.

“Again?” she asks, when they meet eyes. She’s up to her elbows in what looks like molasses, and there’s a white bandanna holding back her strawberry blonde hair. “Can’t you wait till morning?”

William pulls his attention away from the storm and crosses the kitchen to meet her. The boards creak under his feet. The house is old and drafty, but it’s theirs— soon, their family’s, when the baby comes. He wouldn’t trade it for the world.

He stops next to her at the counter. “Might be up to my ears come morning.”

Mary Beth flashes a little smile, and reaches up to tug on one of his ears. At six-foot-one, he stands nearly an entire foot taller than her, but she makes up for in vigor what she lacks in height. “That’s not so hard.”

He feels his face warm with a blush, and he reaches to wipe away the smudge of dough she’s left on his ear. His ears are big; he knows this, it runs in his family— but she’s the only one he cares to have poke fun at him for it. He wonders absently, gazing at her belly, if their baby will inherit the trait.

He tastes the batter on his hand— definitely molasses. “I have to ask,” he says, as she returns to her giant bowl. “What are you doing?”

“Making ginger snaps,” she replies, with a wider smile. “Well. Sans the ginger.”

He tilts over her shoulder, rests a hand on her back, and takes a swipe of the dough in the bowl with his finger. “How can you have ginger snaps without the ginger?”

“I don’t know.” She pauses, sighs a little. “But I thought— I thought people could use some Christmas spirit.”

Even without ginger, the stuff is tasty. Baking is mostly a luxury these days, but Mary Beth has always been a hell of a cook, and the talent extends to desserts. It’s a big batch of dough, which means she’s planning to give the cookies away. “Tastes good to me.”

“Thank you, darling.” She reaches for a handful of flour, and drops it into the bowl with a ceremonious puff. “I just hope it bakes well. I’m making it up as I go.”

William pauses. He watches her knead the flour into the dough, beating it half to death. “It’s not all for us, is it?”

“Of course not,” she laughs. “Even I couldn’t eat this much if I dreamed. I thought I’d give some to my ma, and some to Annie, and, oh— maybe some of the boys down at the yard could use some?”

“That’s awful nice of you, although I’m not sure I’ll go in tomorrow,” he says. “Could always freeze ‘em, though.”

She nods, still warring with her hunk of dough. “Exactly.”

He watches her work for a few more seconds, then asks, “Were you craving molasses?”

Mary Beth hangs her head. “I think I neglect to answer that question.”

He laughs and wraps his arms around her. She momentarily removes herself from the baking, wipes her hands on a rag, and leans against his chest. He rests one careful hand on her stomach. If he keeps it there long enough, he’s sure to feel the baby moving.

“How are you feeling?”

She nods a little, looks up at him. “Good. Better than yesterday.”

“Good. That’s good.” He rubs his thumb on her belly.

They’ve called this baby their Christmas miracle. Since they got married two years ago, a baby has been all they’ve wanted— but Mary Beth had trouble conceiving, and William had resolved himself to the fact that no baby might come at all by the time she got pregnant this past springtime. It’s been a long and difficult pregnancy, keeping her bedridden and sick and weaker than usual, but she’s nearly reached the end of it now, and she’s been perfect. She’s always perfect.

He can’t wait to meet their baby.

“We should rest tonight,” he says. “I’ll draw you a bath?” He glances to the window. The snow is coming in torrents, like a downpour of rain. “It’ll only get colder, and— aw, Mar, maybe I  _ do _ oughta go shovel, don’t you think? I’ll have to dig my way to the barn in the morning—”

Mary Beth lets out a gentle laugh. “Well, if it’ll make you feel better, best do to it before it gets much darker. The soup’s not ready yet, anyway.”

“I know.” He pauses, then kisses her cheek. “You’re right. I’ll go get my jacket.”

It’s best this way, he thinks, as he walks to the coat rack by the door. He’ll have to get out to the barn in the morning, for his morning chores, like always, and if it snows three feet overnight, he’ll be trudging up to his waist just to get there. If he shovels again, at least he’ll have a handle on what’s already fallen.

Storm of the season. He just hopes he can keep Mary Beth and the baby warm.

It’s frigid out when he goes to shovel, with gusts of gale-force wind to accompany the pouring of snow from the sky. Their property is huge; it’s been his family’s farm for three generations now. His brothers live in Bar Harbor, running their own fishing business, but ever since he finished his training with the Navy, he’s been at home, splitting his time between the farm and the shipyard. One day, they might send him away, but for now, he holds up the farm, like his parents and grandparents before him.

It’s not easy, and the Depression has made it worse. But he has a wife and a baby on the way, and that’s all he could ever need. As for the work, somebody has to do it.

He makes his way down the whole barn path, until his hands and nose and ears are numb. He knows she’ll scold him for not wearing the good hat, the one that covers his ears, but he’s in a rush, so he can get back to her. When the work is done, he turns around and finds at least another inch has piled up while he’s been going at it.

He trudges back up to the house anyway. It’s minimally lit, but the Christmas candles are burning in all the windows.

“Okay,” he calls, once he’s through the front door, and unlacing his boots. “If that won’t hold till morning, I’m a lost cause. ‘Least I tried.”

Mary Beth doesn’t respond. He figures she must not have heard him— the front door opens to the mudroom, after all, and she’s in the kitchen. But then he hears her voice.

“William?”

It’s a strangled sort of cry, and his stomach drops. He bolts to the kitchen, still half-bundled in his snow things. She’s still by the counter, and everything looks normal— but she’s staring at the ground beneath her legs, and visibly shaking.

He runs to her in a hurry. “Hey, hey, Mar— what’s wrong?”

She’s still watching the floor, and it’s then that he notices the wet trail in her stockings, all the way to a puddle of clear liquid at her shoes. “I think—” she stammers. “I think my—”

“Your water broke,” he says, and she nods, then winces, puts a hand on her stomach.

William’s world spins. The baby is coming. Tonight.

“Call my mother,” Mary Beth says. “And Annie.”

*

Ellen Murphy is a force to be reckoned with. She’s over in a flash, with Mary Beth’s sister, Bridget, in tow— she’s fifteen, but seems to have been pulled along to help; their twin brothers have been left at home with their pa.

William gets the door, and his mother-in-law bustles right inside. Her shoulders and winter cap are covered in snow. “Where is she?”

“On the couch,” he replies, “for now— I think we oughta bring her upstairs, right?”

Ellen nods. “Right away.” Bridget trails her, holding a bag. He presses the door shut behind them, to preserve the heat and keep out the storm.

He follows them through the kitchen to the living room, where Mary Beth is still convulsing on the couch, hunched over and shaky. “Ellen,” William says, “do you think I should call the doctor?”

Ellen is on the move, consulting her daughter on the couch, but she throws a glance William’s way and says, “Can’t imagine he’ll take any calls in this storm, but it’s worth a try. Mary, how do you feel?”

Mary Beth groans, holds her stomach. She manages to get out, “Not well.”

William falters at the sight of her in so much pain, then composes himself— or at least tries to— and steps forward. “Here. I can carry her upstairs.”

“Perfect,” Ellen says, and he does, lifting her from the couch like she weighs nothing— a benefit of the size difference between them. On the way up the stairs, she rests her head against his chest and lets out a shaky exhale.

“I love you,” he tells her. “You’re strong. You can do this.”

“This baby wants  _ out _ ,” she says, then makes what sounds like an attempt to steady her breathing. “Are you ready?”

“I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life.”

A ghost of a smile shows itself on her pale face. She nods, then winces. “Me, too.”

Once they get her situated in the bedroom, Ellen sends him back downstairs to get water and a few rags, plus to call the doctor. William’s heart is pounding, and he’s not even the one doing the work. Everything is ready for this baby, but he knows how hard this pregnancy has been, knows the fertility history in Mary Beth’s family. He can’t help but panic, just a little, at the prospect of her having to do this with no doctor, no professionals, no medicine.

He goes for the phone and gets the operator to connect him to the doctor’s office, trying not to focus so much on how hard his hands are shaking.

The phone rings. And rings. And rings, and rings, and  _ God damn it _ , shouldn’t the doctor be taking calls? Aren’t emergencies during bad weather the most dangerous types of emergencies?

She can do this. He can do this. They’ve come this far. They have to make it.

There’s a knock at the door, but he doesn’t bother to answer it, because he knows it’s Annie, and she’ll come in on her own. Sure enough, a few seconds later, Mary Beth’s best friend bustles across the kitchen, snowy and windblown, with her six-month-old son in her arms. She’s pint-sized, even smaller than Mary Beth, with golden hair and attitude to boot. They’ve both known her since grade school.

“I couldn’t find someone to watch him,” she offers, as a greeting. “I was hoping Bridget might want to— oh, nevermind. Where’s your wife? Is she upstairs?” Annie pauses. “Why do you look like you’re seeing a ghost? You’re about to be a father!”

These are a lot of words at once. Annie is every ounce the people person that William isn’t. Mary Beth falls somewhere between the two of them. “They’re upstairs,” he manages, and then, “I— I couldn’t get a hold of the doctor.”

“Aw, that’s alright.” Annie hoists baby Kent onto her shoulder. He seems to be sleeping, and he’s in a homemade knit beanie, not much unlike the one Annie gifted them recently. She has a talent for knitting, and with a baby of her own plus her best friend’s baby on the way, she’s been busy making tiny clothes— that is, when she finds the time between running her diner and being a mom.

“Who needs ‘im?” Annie continues. “Me and Ellen, we’ve got it under control.”

William’s pulse picks up. He itches to get back up to Mary Beth. “Right.”

She seems to read his mind. “Now c’mon. Let’s go upstairs and help.”

*

She’s in labor all night.

It’s long and painstaking and nerve-wracking. All he can tell is that she’s just in a lot of pain, and the baby wants to come out but it turns out this takes a lot more pushing and groaning and waiting than he prepared himself for. All he can do is sit with her, in a chair next to their bed, holding her hand— but really,  _ she’s  _ the one holding  _ his _ hand, given the fact that she squeezes it so hard she could crush his bones.

He’s never watched someone deliver a baby before— back in July, when Annie had Kent, Mary Beth was around to help her, but William didn’t get even close to the delivery room; it just wasn’t his place. He has nothing to rank this against, no way to tell if this is what it’s like for everyone or if it’s going really badly for her in particular. He has no idea when and how it will end. He prays, silently, persistently, that he’ll meet his baby tonight, that she’ll be there with him when he does.

The snow piles up outside. He listens her cries, holds on tight. The house seems an island, or maybe a boat, alone in the midst of a stormy sea.

And then, sometime just past two in the morning, something happens. Annie says she can see a head, and they urge her to a final push. She gives his hand the hardest squeeze yet, and then, oh,  _ God _ , he hears the unmistakable pierce of an infant’s wail, and he sees Ellen laugh out loud as she pulls the baby from between her legs.

William’s heart leaps. For the first time all night, he squeezes his exhausted wife’s hand back.

Annie, who has been ready, it seems, for this, cleans the baby and hands it William’s way. “It’s a boy,” she tells him, beaming, and then the Poindexters meet their baby.

*

He’s tiny and pale. He has a head of hair the same stark ginger as his father’s, and he has William’s eyes, too, light irises somewhere between brown and amber. He has Mary Beth’s nose, and his  _ ears _ — even on his little baby head, they’re gigantic. William wonders if he’ll grow out of it.

He’s beautiful all the same. He’s a miracle.

It’s hours before they get a moment alone, because Mary Beth takes a long time to recover to full consciousness. She loses more blood than anyone would care to, and they keep her holding on with fluids, and William rocks the baby by the window and talks him gently into the world, watching the snow suffocate the outside world, praying for his wife.

Near sunrise, they’re finally alone. Ellen goes downstairs to wash the linens, and Annie goes with her, to check on Bridget, who’s been watching baby Kent in the living room for hours. William sinks down onto the bed next to her, marveling at the sight of his son in his wife’s arms. His pocket watch says it’s just shy of six in the morning.

He wraps his arm around her. She rests her head on his shoulder, still shaky, still unwell, but very much  _ here _ . Their son isn’t crying anymore; he’s asleep against his mother’s chest.

William’s eyes prick with tears, all at once. He’s not sure he’s ever been so happy in his life, even on his wedding day.

“Y’know,” Mary Beth says, with a breathless smile, “he looks so much like his papa.”

He feels his face warm, and he ducks his head with a smile of his own, a little chuckle. “He does, doesn’t he?”

“Mm.” She nods. He presses a kiss to her temple, and they watch him sleep. For all the chaos of the past twelve hours, in this moment there is only love and peace. It occurs to him, as he rests against her, that this is the first time their family is all together.

Then Mary Beth says, “How about William?”

He doesn’t understand this question at first. He looks to her like she’s asking him for something, but her eyes are still on the baby. There’s a brief silence, and then it occurs to him very abruptly that they haven’t chosen a name yet.

And then he realizes what she’s saying.

“You—” He meets her eyes. She’s beaming, glowing. He feels like maybe he’s falling in love with her all over again. “You want to— you want to  _ name _ him William?”

“Well, doesn’t he look it?” She bounces him in her arms. “We can call him Will.”

“Mar— wait. Are you…” He trails off, watching her coo at the baby. He blinks away the mist in his eyes. “Are you sure?”

Mary Beth smiles. “I’ve never been more sure.”

He laughs. He nods. He leans down and kisses her.

“Okay.”

And so William James Poindexter, Junior, is born December 10th, 1935, in the middle of the storm of the season.

Their Christmas miracle baby, indeed.

_ *** _

_ii._

_ December 1939 _

  
Mass on Christmas Eve is one of the longest of the year.

It’s long for a lot of reasons, but for Will, four-year-old that he is, it feels extra dragged out. Even though he goes to church with Ma and Pa every Sunday, there’s something different about the mass the night before Christmas. He’s preoccupied with excitement about the evening, and not even just about Santa coming; Christmas Eve is a time for many traditions in his family.

And what a big family it is— for a few years now, ever since his grandpa on Ma’s side died, Grandma has lived on the farm with them, and so have his aunt Bridget, and uncles Sean and Patrick. They fill up a whole pew at mass, and that doesn’t even include Uncle Tommy and Uncle Charlie, who will drive up from Bar Harbor tomorrow with their families for Christmas dinner.

Will likes it when everyone is together, and Christmas means togetherness.

He sits between his parents at Mass, well-behaved for his age, and when they walk out the doors after the final blessing, the adults stop to talk to many a familiar face. Good Haven is a tiny, Irish Catholic town, and it’s impossible to go to church without running into pretty much everybody you know. Ma gets into a conversation with Miss Annie, and Will holds onto Pa’s hand while he greets Father Peter. It’s snowing outside just a little, but there’s already plenty on the ground.

“Merry Christmas, Will,” says the priest, flashing a warm smile from miles above. “I heard you’re getting a Christmas tree tonight?”

Will smiles. He nods, swinging Pa’s hand. “And Santa’s coming!”

“Santa?” Father Peter bends down to his eye level. His robes are all white, for the special occasion. “And did you ask for anything special?”

Will thinks for a moment, and then, “A toy boat.”

“A toy boat!” He grins. When he did Will’s christening four years ago, there wasn’t any gray in his beard, but it’s salt-and-pepper nowadays. “Well, I hope Santa brings you one. Remember, the baby Jesus loves you!”

“Hey,  _ neat _ !” Sean and Patrick burst out of the church doors at this exact moment, and Will whips around. His uncles are identical twins, and practically the same person, right down to their curly red hair. They look a lot like Ma, but they have all Grandpa’s height.

Will misses Grandpa. He only has a few memories of him, but he always smelled like butterscotch candies.

“It’s snowing!” Sean says.

“Hey, now.” Grandma shushes him. “Don’t shout.”

“But it’s snowing!” Patrick cries, then looks to his brother. “We should build a snowman.”

Will perks up, peeks from behind Pa’s leg. A snowman?

Sean walks over to him. In slacks and a tie, he’s dressed up for Mass— they all were, as best they could be. Pa is in his Navy uniform; it’s the best clothes he has.

“C’mon, Will,” Sean says, “don’t you wanna build a snowman?”

Will nods. He smiles. “Yes!”

“We can build a snowman after we put up the tree,” Grandma says.

Sean looks to Patrick. “What’s the verdict?”

Patrick nods. “It’s a satisfactory compromise.”

Will spots his best friend next to Miss Annie, and he waves between the tall adults that pass between them. Kent leaves Annie’s side like a flash of lightning, and runs to give Will a hug. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas, Kenny,” Will says. They’re in their first year of preschool, and Kenny is better at making friends than he is, but they’ve been best friends since they were tiny babies, and he hasn’t left him behind.

Kenny gets to babbling about how he’s asking Santa for a new bag of jacks, so they can play next time Will comes over, but soon enough, Miss Annie tells him that they have to get going so that they can get to Aunt Suzanne’s house, and Will bids him goodbye. Sean and Patrick have found some friends from school, and Ma and Grandma are talking to some of the ladies who are in their Rosary group.

“Papa,” Will says, tugging on Pa’s white pants. When he has his attention, he lifts both his arms and bounces a little. “Up-up?”

Pa smiles down at him. “Sure, Junior,” he says, and he scoops him up, tossing him in the air just a little before catching him on his way back down. Will laughs and holds onto him. “Again, Papa, again!”

Nearby, Ma calls, over her shoulder, “Now, William, you be careful!”

Pa shoots her a smile. “Yes, Mar,” he says, “of course; just having fun with Junior.”

Will laughs and buries his forehead in Pa’s collar. He jostles him one more time, and Will holds onto the dark blue tie on his uniform. Together, they walk over to Ma, who seems to be finishing up, and Grandma with her.

“Are we about ready to go?” Grandma says.

“Chrimas tree!” Will can barely contain his excitement. “Chrimas tree time!”

“Aren’t you excited for your tree, Will?” asks one of the ladies.

Too bashful to answer, Will hides his face in Pa’s collar. Pa laughs and tells the lady, “He’s very excited.”

Nearby, Bridget lets out a sigh and wraps her arms around herself. “I’m cold,” she says. “Can we go now?”

Grandma passes her a set of keys. “You go on and warm up the car. We’ll be right there.”

Ma looks Will’s way. “Ready to go, Junior?”

Will smiles at his mama. “I’m ready.”

Pa puts him down, and he takes his parents’ hands on either side. They swing him while they walk toward their car, lifting him periodically to make him fly, and he laughs out loud into the snowy sky. “Again!” he cries. “Again, again!”

And so they do. They’ll do anything to make him smile.

*

The Christmas tree is tall and full, if not sticky with sap, and they put it up in the living room next to the radio. Ma and Grandma decorate it with tinsel and all their favorite ornaments, and they string it with lights in green, blue, and red. Will gets Mama to hold him while she hangs ornaments, and he watches the tree light reflect all over the room. He’s mesmerized.

“Mama? Is Santa really coming tonight?”

“Of course he is, darling.” Will smiles. “And if you’re good, hopefully he’ll bring you what you asked for.”

Patrick and Sean take him outside after their tree endeavors, and they build a snowman worthy of an award. They give it one of Grandma’s scarves, a carrot nose, coal eyes, a raisin mouth, and sticks for arms. Patrick lifts Will up so he can put on the final touch— an old hat of Grandpa’s, complete with holly stuck in its brim.

“Careful, Will,” Patrick warns. His nose is red in the cold, and his ginger curls fly out from under his stocking cap. “Looks like he might come to life and try to play with ya.”

Will jumps out of his teenage uncle’s arms and lands with a  _ poof  _ in a snowbank. “No! No scary snowman!”

“Aw, stick a lid on it, Patty,” Sean says, then bends down to Will’s eye level. “He’s just playing. C’mon, let’s go inside. Maybe your ma will let us have some of the gingersnaps.”

Poindexter gingersnaps are a hot commodity. Ma makes them every year.

Sean gives him a piggyback ride back up to the house, where they shack in with a plate of the cookies and gather around the tree. The radio is playing Christmas music, and Pa tells his favorite story about how he  _ swears  _ he saw Santa Claus, three years ago during his night barn chores.

Will sits on his pa’s knee. When they’ve all been together there for awhile, he’s dozing, and Pa’s arm around him is warm, and the lull of “Silent Night” playing on the radio is sending him off to sleep, Pa checks his pocket watch and smiles. “Say, it’s getting pretty late, dontcha think?”

“I wouldn’t want Santa to skip over our house,” Ma says in a singsong voice, which gets Will to sit bolt upright. Santa skipping the house?

“Bedtime?” Will says, and she nods.

“You run along and get ready,” Ma says, but he’s already on his way, bounding across the kitchen like a bat out of hell. “And brush your teeth!”

“Mama? Papa?” Will turns on the stairs. “Will you tuck me in?”

They exchange a knowing smile, and stand to head his way. “We’ll meet you upstairs, Junior.”

Will smiles his way to bed, and he sleeps safe and sound.

_ *** _

_ iii. _

_ December 1941 _

The train station is very crowded.

Will feels trapped under a layer of much taller adults, clinging to Ma’s hand as they weave in and out of the crowd. His family surrounds him, like something of a shield, but it’s hard not to feel unsettled in such a strange and busy place. They had to drive almost two hours just to get here, and it’s not even the smallest leg of Pa’s journey. He has to go far, far away.

Will watches him walk before him, in full uniform, carrying his bag. There are others like him around; all the soldiers, after all, are going to the same few places sooner or later, but Will’s attention stays only on him. He dashes forward, lets go of Ma’s hand, and reaches up to take Pa’s. Pa has big hands, and Will’s are still small; he feels safe with him.

“William, you stay with your father,” Ma tells him. “Don’t get lost.”

“I’ve got ‘im,” Pa tells her, and then he smiles down to him. “You alright, Junior?”

“How long will you be gone, Papa?”

Pa still smiles, but it takes him a moment to answer. A draft of chilly winter air hits Will, and he wants to huddle up in one of his parents’ arms. Finally, Pa says, “Well… I can’t say I’m sure just how long. But you’ll be good while I’m gone, won’t ya?”

Will nods. “Yes, sir!”

Pa squeezes his hand. “That’s my boy.”

His parents sat him down to explain, a few days ago, after the day they all clustered by the radio listening to the news, after the letter for Pa came in the mail.  _ Some bad people attacked America, and they’ve sent for Papa to go fight them. _

_ What kind of bad people, Mama? _

_ The Japanese, darling. They’re part of the war. _

Will knows what’s happening across the ocean, knows there’s a war going on. Having your pa in the Navy makes you privy to matters of conflict, even as a six-year-old. But Will has never witnessed a war hit home before. Pa works on a shipyard in Bar Harbor, not on a base in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Patrick and Sean work at the hardware store and the post office, not in France or Germany.

Will has never seen his world upended quite like this before.

They cluster together by the platform, waiting for the train. It’s cold, and Will roots himself at Pa’s side, shivering in his hand-me-down jacket. Ma stations herself on the other end of him and lifts him into her arms, like she can tell.

“It’s okay,” she says. “You’ll warm up when we get home.”

Will doesn’t want to get home. When they get home, Pa will be gone.

When the train comes, it all goes too fast. 

“Hey, you two stick together, now,” he hears Pa tell Sean and Patrick. They’re leaving, too, but across the other ocean, to fight against the Germans, not the Japanese. They don’t have to go for a few more days. “And write to your ma, ya hear?”

Sean and Patrick salute him, bearing huge smiles. “Yes, sir!”

“Aye, cap’n!”

Pa flushes. He’s not a captain yet; he’s a lieutenant, but Sean and Patrick know that.

The moments where Pa says goodbye will become a blur, as the years go on, in Will’s memory. He’ll remember him kissing Ma’s hand, and lifting him into his arms for a big hug goodbye. He’ll remember him promising to write, and making Will promise he’ll write, too. He’ll remember the small, folded piece of paper he drew from his tiny pocket and gave to Pa— a drawing of their family he was saving, to give to him for Christmas.  _ I made this for you, so you look at it while you’re away and see us. _

_ Thank you, Junior. I love it. It looks just like us. _

Most of all, he’ll remember the tip of his hat Pa gives them just before he gets on the train.

And he’ll remember the moment he disappears.

*

The yearly Christmas party isn’t the same.

It’s been a tradition since before Will was even born. Pa started it, with Uncle Tommy and Uncle Charlie, when they were just boys, wanting to spread some Christmas cheer on the farm. They invited practically the whole town, and from that point, the Poindexter Christmas party became something of a legend in Good Haven. Will has fond memories of past parties— though this is only his sixth, he can squint and remember last year, how Pa dressed up as Santa Claus and handed out presents to the children ( _ now, don’t tell anyone that it’s me, Junior; I spoke with Santa and he said it was just fine; we want to make it special for the other kids; you can keep our secret, right? _ )

They fill the whole house, and everyone brings food. Will gets to stay up late, usually darting around between his parents even when other kids have gone home. It’s a special feeling— everyone coming to his house to celebrate.

But this year is different.

There’s practically not a man over eighteen in sight, thanks to the war. Pa is long gone, and so are Sean and Patrick. Uncle Charlie got sent away three days ago, and Bridget’s fiance enlisted in the Air Force right after the attacks in Hawaii. Uncle Tommy, at least, is still here; he has a bad shoulder, so he doesn’t qualify.

Ma is unwavering. No war is going to stop the Poindexter family Christmas party. She enlists Miss Annie, who comes over early with Kent to help her and Grandma set up. Will plays with Kenny in his room upstairs.

“Do you miss your pa?” Kenny asks him, zooming a wooden truck across the floor.

Will nods, and all at once he wants to cry. Papa has always been home for Christmas.

At the party, he sticks with Kenny; they’ve been attached at the hip since practically the night Will was born. They weave between adults and play jacks by the fire. There’s a Christmas record spinning, one of Ma’s favorites. The tree is up already, an anomaly— but with all the men leaving, they wanted to give them the chance to help decorate before they were sent off, so they got their tree on Will’s birthday this year.

Uncle Tommy arrives with his family thirty minutes late. “Hey, Junior!” He’s tall as a skyscraper and looks almost just like Pa. “I’ve got something for ya!”

He’s holding a drink in one hand and a yellowish piece of paper in the other, and though he has Will’s attention, he hands the paper to Ma. The room quiets, and Ma smiles as she reads out loud.

“Lieutenant William Poindexter, Naval Base Subic Bay, Zambales, Philippines. Merry Christmas one and all, stop. Sorry I missed the party this year, stop. I’m looking forward to hearing about how it went in my absence, stop. Mary, keep Tommy under control—” Ma pauses to laugh, and Uncle Tommy flashes a wide grin as her laugh ripples among the other women. “— stop. Tell Junior I have my picture pinned right above my bed, stop. Much peace and love to all. Yours, Pa.”

The room erupts in a round of applause, laughter, smattered cheers. Will watches the telegram with admiration, then reaches up until Ma hands it down to him. He can’t read yet, but he holds it to his chest anyway, like it will link him to Pa, who’s so far away.

Uncle Tommy lifts his glass of whisky. “A toast!” he calls. “A toast to all the men fighting the good fight this Christmas.”

Ma isn’t drinking alcohol, but she toasts him with her glass of cider anyways. “Hear, hear, Tommy.”

Will lifts his juice box and bumps it against Kenny’s. It’s enough. He hopes Pa can hear them saluting him, all the way across the Pacific.

Pa won’t be home for four years, but he’ll be the lucky one. Patrick and Sean will never see their hometown again. Their family will never quite be the same.

_ *** _

_ iv. _

_ December 1948 _

Will turns thirteen on a freezing December day.

It’s a Friday, and he wakes up early; he’s been conditioned into being an early riser thanks to helping Pa with the barn chores. When Pa left for Japan, Will started helping Ma and Grandma out a lot more on the farm, and by the time he got home, he was something of a regular professional. He misses the ocean more than he can say, but fishing with Uncle Tommy is just something that doesn’t happen often in the wintertime. Instead, his work is in the barn. Mornings start with Pa, and the easy quiet of walking with him to the barn, rain or freeze or shine. They dress in overalls and they look just alike. Every day, Will is growing; he hopes he’ll be as tall as Pa in a couple more years.

Today, his birthday, he meets him in the kitchen, like always. “Happy birthday, Junior,” Pa says, and gives him a sideways hug. “Feel older?”

Will shakes his head. “Not really.”

They don’t talk much— they never really do, during the morning routine, and it’s not the kind of silence that’s awkward but rather the comfortable kind, the kind you share with your family and the people you love. They’re both quiet by nature/ Ma tells him every day that he’s becoming his father, and Pa pretends to be offended, and they laugh with each other, and Will gets this little swell of pride in his chest. All he wants is to be just like Pa.

“Say,” Pa remarks, as Will is gathering the eggs in the chicken coop. “You’re a teenager now.”

Will sifts through the hay to make sure he hasn’t missed anything. Their sole rooster paces at his feet, and Pa makes a clicking sound to stop the crowding, tossing some feed in the opposite direction.

“I guess I am,” Will replies. “But I don’t feel like one.”

Pa lets out a soft laugh. “What d’ya mean by that?”

Will shrugs. “Do you ever feel different on your birthday?”

Pa’s birthday is in the summer, always one of the hottest days in August. They always go to Bar Harbor and spend the day by the sea.

“I guess not,” Pa says finally, emptying the last of the chicken feed onto the ground. The hens cluster at his feet; he’s their very favorite person. “But that’s because I’m old.”

Will laughs. Pa is only 34. He’s far from old.

On the way back up to the house, in the dark of the wintry morning, Pa puts his hand on his back and says, “Y’know, your ma was saying last night, we should go and get a Christmas tree when you get home from school today.”

“Can we?” Will looks up at him. “Really?”

“Of course we can,” Pa replies. “It’s our tradition now.”

It’s just the three of them at the farm. Grandma died last year, and Bridget moved out when she finally married Martin after the war. Though it’s not the first time the house has only been home to three, it does feel different not to be surrounded by extended family, the way he remembers growing up.

Will is just grateful to have Pa.

Inside, Ma has made breakfast— eggs and toast with tomato, Will’s favorite. She wraps him in a hug and wishes him a happy birthday, reaffirms their plans to get a tree. At the breakfast table, there’s a paper gift bag, stuffed with green tissue paper.

Will lifts it with a tentative hand, furrowing his brow. It’s not exactly light, but it’s not heavy, either. “Is this for me?”

“Well, it sure isn’t anyone else’s birthday,” Ma laughs.

Inside are some wool socks that look like Miss Annie’s knitting, plus a flannel undershirt and a pair of new jeans— brand new jeans, gee whiz! He never gets new clothes! He has so many cousins and uncles and family members who send him hand-me-downs, most of which don’t fit him quite right, and these clothes are so nice he thinks he just might cry— but men don’t cry, so he just smiles like crazy. “Aw, Ma, Pa—  _ thank _ you— this must’ve cost a  _ fortune _ —”

Ma bats her wooden spoon in his direction. “Now, don’t you worry for one second about how much it cost, William. It’s high time you got some new clothes.”

Will laughs and holds the shirt to his face. It’s the softest plaid flannel, in green and black, some of his favorite colors. It looks almost just like a shirt Pa has.

“Thank you,” he says. “I love it all.”

“We’ll have to make sure it fits you alright,” Pa says. “But it should be good.”

“Okay.” He almost feels guilty about the fact that they spent money about him, but in this moment, he’s too happy to care. Today isn’t a day for worrying. Today is just his birthday.

So he sits to have breakfast with his parents.

*

The days are short, and the sun is already setting by the time they set out to get the tree. The snow in the backyard is deep, but walk far enough into the woods and you’re sure to find a little fir tree to cut down (this has, after all, been their strategy for several years now). Will pulls a sled to bring the tree home on, and Pa carries the saw to cut it down.

“Oh,” Ma says, while they’re walking along, and points to something beyond the treeline. “I see it. That one right there.”

It’s a blue spruce, at the perfect height. Its top is dusted in snow, and its branches look full and sturdy. It stands amidst bushes of red berries beneath a canopy of pine.

“Oh, Mar, you’re right,” Pa says. “That’s perfect. Help me get it down, Junior?”

“For sure,” Will replies, and he feels a swell of pride. He’s finally old enough to help Pa.

The tree goes up easily after dinner. Ma still puts Grandma’s ornaments up, and they’re adding to their collection every now and then; it looks not unlike the trees of his childhood. They let him put the angel on the top, and they sit on the couch and listen to the radio. Ma’s favorite program is on, the Catholic Hour with Father Sheen. Will sits between his parents, wearing his brand-new wool socks.

Christmas time is finally here.

“Didja have a good birthday?” Pa asks, in a low voice, as not to disturb Ma’s radio-induced nirvana.

“The best,” Will replies, and he’s not sure why he says it, but he thinks maybe he’s just lucky to spend it with his family. Then he asks, “Pa? Can you tell me a boat story?”

Pa has many, many boat stories. He ruffles the ginger hair atop Will’s head. “You bet.”

There are many stressors in their lives, but tonight, there’s nothing but peace.

_ *** _

_ v. _

_ December 1950 _

There’s one present left under the tree.

Not that there were all that many to begin with, but Christmas, for the Poindexter family, has never been about the number of gifts exchanged. What remains beneath the fir branches is a lone, small box, wrapped in green tissue paper and tied with red string.

Will can see it from his spot on the couch. It’s his first year sitting here; in years past, he’d be on the floor, fielding the distribution of gifts to his parents and himself— or, earlier, to the other members of his family, who aren’t here anymore.

Today is different. The house feels emptier than it has any previous Christmas, even the one after Grandma died, or when Patrick and Sean didn’t come home.

This time, someone much closer is gone.

He sits at Ma’s side, surveying the scene under the tree. They’ve exchanged minimal, small presents with each other, which now rest, opened, on the coffee table— she got him a new pair of work boots, in response to the growth spurt she can barely keep up with, plus a new winter jacket and a few warm shirts. He gathered his savings to get her a set of pot holders for the kitchen, a pair of mittens, and a matching scarf.

The gift part of Christmas is about practicality. It almost always has been, but this year more than ever. There’s not room for much else in Will’s heart today.

“Ma,” Will murmurs, breaking what has turned out to be a few minutes’ silence. “Where did that one come from?”

When he looks to her, he finds her eyes are on the lone present, too. But unlike him, she doesn’t seem confused. “I put it there last night,” she replies. Her voice is soft— warm, gentle, but very soft. “It’s for you.”

Will furrows his brow. “But I— Ma, you didn’t have to get me anything else.”

“It’s not from me,” she tells him, which furthers his confusion, but she nudges him gently, and the gesture prompts him to stand up and walk to the tree to get it. “Go on,” she says. “Bring it here.”

The small box doesn’t weigh much. He turns it over in his hands as he carries it to the couch, where he settles back into his spot next to her. She reaches into the folds of her robe, then draws out a small envelope and hands it to him. Will squints at her, but she looks rather somber.

“What is this?” he asks, turning the envelope over. She doesn’t answer, because the scrawl on the front of the envelope answers the question for him.

It says  _ Will _ , and nothing else, but his breath falters at the recognition of Pa’s handwriting. He wills his voice not to shake as he asks, “Ma? Where did you—” He swallows. There is not a lump in his throat. He will not cry. “Where did you get this?”

She rests her hand on his knee. Ma has small hands, but warm ones. He tries to ground himself in her touch. “Pa asked me to give this to you if he wasn’t home for Christmas.”

He can hear the tremor in her voice, and it threatens to worsen his fragile state. Of course Pa isn’t home for Christmas. Pa will never be home for Christmas again. Pa is at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, off the coast of Korea, his life sacrificed in a war that’s not a war, a war that wasn’t supposed to kill him.

Will will never see his father again. The writing on the envelope taunts him, mocks him.

He takes a long breath that comes out too sharp. He holds the envelope gingerly, like it’ll crumble to dust if he handles it too roughly. It feels all too delicate in his big, lumbering, shaking hands.

“Do you know what it is?” he breathes finally, bringing himself back down to Earth.

Ma nods. She wears a bittersweet smile. “It’s okay, darling. You can open it.”

Will isn’t sure he’s ready for that, but he can’t stand to hold Pa’s unopened words in his hand, much less the box in his lap. So he opens the envelope and slides out a letter.

_ Merry Christmas Junior _ , says the salutation, and then the page blurs behind warm tears in his eyes.

He reads the letter to himself, and when he’s done, he has to put it down so he can wipe at his face. He hates himself for crying, but more than that, he hates the fact that Pa is gone, hates the way the house feels in his absence, much different than any time he’s been away overseas. He hates the fact that he knows exactly what’s inside that box, after reading this letter. He hates that he’s about to open it, to step into the role he wasn’t prepared for. He’s fifteen years old.

He hates the fact that this letter is Pa’s final way of saying goodbye.

Ma’s hand moves from his knee to rest on his back. He wipes his face with the sleeve of his pajama shirt and takes a long breath, composes himself. “I’m sorry,” he gets out, between shaky breaths.

“William,” she says, still so gentle, “do not even think about saying sorry.”

He picks up the box and tells her, in a voice much more strained than he wants it to be, “I— I know what’s in here.”

She rubs his back. “Why don’t you go ahead and open it.”

So he does. It’s a small box, with a sliding lid. Inside is exactly what he predicted— his father’s pocket watch.

It has the family coat of arms on it, and it’s held by a silver chain that seems to have been polished recently. It was with his things when they sent them home. The letter told him what he already knows, what Pa told him many times. It came here from Ireland, generations ago. It’s been passed down and down, from man to man.

_ Now it’s your turn _ , says Pa’s letter.  _ I know you’ll make me proud. _

It feels too small in his hand. Did it look this small when Pa held it? He hates that he has to take a moment to remember.

He’s shaking.

“He wanted you to have it,” Ma whispers, and Will reaches sideways to hug her, impulsive and desperate. She doesn’t hesitate to wrap him up in an embrace, and when his face is safely buried away in her shoulder, he lets out the choked sob he’s been holding in. It hurts his chest. He clutches to the watch like it’s a lifeline.

The only thing he can get out is, “Thank you, Ma.”

She says nothing. He has a nasty feeling she’s crying, too, but he doesn’t want to look up to find out. There was enough of this pain, enough of seeing her heartbroken, during the funeral procedures a month ago. He doesn’t want to see this.

He’s not sure how long they’re quiet. When he finishes crying— at least, for now— he leans on her shoulder and studies the watch. He’s seen it so many times in his life, but it’s never been his.

Ma coughs. It’s an ugly sound. She’s had a persistent cold for weeks.

Then she says, “I was thinking, love… we can go lay our wreath on the way to dinner.”

“Oh.” Will gets a rush to the head. “Dinner.”

“At Tommy’s house?” she says. “Remember, they invited us?”

Will pauses. He closes his fist around the watch, presses it against his chest. The metal is cool on his palm. “I don’t,” he says. “I— I don’t want to go.”

“I know,” she replies. “I know. But we have to be good guests. They were good to invite us.”

It’s their first Christmas not hosting his whole life. He just wants his family whole again.

He realizes, all at once, that he is angry. So very, very angry.

But not at Ma. Never at Ma. When she coughs again, it grounds him, sickly a noise as it is.

“Can I get you some tea or something, Ma?”

She pauses. He worries she’s going to scold him not to fret. He just wants to help her. He  _ has  _ to help her.

But instead, she says, “I’d very much appreciate that, love. Do you want breakfast?”

He stands, on shaky legs. “I’m not so hungry.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” He slides the watch into his pajama pants’ pocket. “I’ll go put the water on.”

*

He hasn’t seen Uncle Tommy— or anyone else on Pa’s side of the family, for that matter— since the funeral. The drive to Bar Harbor is awful, even with their stop to lay a wreath at the cemetery on the way out of town. He doesn’t stop shaking the whole time. He holds tight to the watch. The radio is tuned to the station playing Christmas music, but he feels anything but festive. He keeps forgetting altogether that today is a holiday.

“Ma,” he says, when they pull into Tommy’s driveway. “I don’t feel well.”

All at once, he realizes he’s on the verge of tears.  _ Again _ . He is so sick of crying. He’s sick of grieving.

“You’ll be alright, darling,” she says. “I’ll be here.”

_ I know you’ll make me proud. _

He’s the man of the house now, and he knows it. He has to be strong. He has to make Pa proud.

It’s what he would have wanted.

So he gets out of the car, takes Ma’s hand, and walks to Uncle Tommy’s front door.

_ *** _

_ one that was different _

_ December 1952 _

Will wakes with a start on Christmas morning.

It’s before sunup. His biological clock is incapable of waking him at any other time. He’s not sure why he even bothers with an alarm clock anymore. He may not be in school anymore, but he works full-time at Annie’s Diner and has all the usual farm chores to do every day at home, so his days are full, all of the time. Annie gives him Sundays off, consistently, but he finds himself restless even on those days.

Of course, there’s no work today, although it takes him a moment to remember what day it is. He’s facing the window in bed, and if his eyes don’t mistake him, snow has fallen overnight. He has a feeling it’ll be a picture-perfect Christmas morning when the sun rises.

He rolls over in bed and pulls the covers over his head.

He wants to go back to sleep. The dark is too much, and the house is too empty, and Christmas is too painful of a holiday to get up and face head-on. He tries his damndest to slip back into his slumber, but he was so restless last night that he knows any morning nap he takes now will be just as bad. He isn’t so good at sleeping anymore. It’s an endless cycle— sleep badly at night, dead on his feet in the morning. He may be a morning person, but insomnia is not his friend.

Today is his seventeenth Christmas, and his first without Ma.

He has resolved to treat this as just another day.

When it becomes clear that he isn’t getting back to sleep anytime soon, he gets up, makes the bed, and walks down the stairs. Though he went out last night and cut down a small tree, it’s scarcely decorated, and no presents lay beneath it. He couldn’t bring himself to do the usual decorating job, the traditions he used to share with his parents. There’s a wreath on the door, but no lights on the house. There are candles on the hearth, but no stockings. The house is bare, and it’s Christmas, and Ma is gone.

She was sick so long. He should have seen it coming, but he didn’t; instead, he tried and tried to convince himself that she’d get better, because of course she would; she was Ma, she had to get better. And then she didn’t.

Now, she’s a photograph on the mantel, one from her wedding day. He bids the photos, next to Pa’s boxed flag, the same greeting he has for a month, since her funeral. “Morning, Ma. Morning, Pa.” Then, after a moment, he adds, “Merry Christmas.”

The pictures don’t respond. How could they? Will reminds himself, as he has every day since she died, that his parents are together now.

They’re happy now.

He wishes he could say the same of himself.

He dons his winter jacket and work boots, then braves the chilly outdoors to do his morning barn chores. The sooner they’re over, the sooner he can go back to bed. If he can’t put himself to sleep the organic way, the bottle of whisky he brought home last night will help.

And yes, it’s probably way too early in the morning for any of that, and yes, Ma would hate that he’s resorted to that. But none of that has stopped him lately, so he’s not sure why it should stop him on Christmas.

His chores progress as usual in the barn. The animals don’t know it’s Christmas, but he gives them a little extra at feeds anyway, some scraps from vegetables he’s used in recent dinners-for-one. He remembers that Uncle Tommy has invited him to dinner, and wonders how much his family will hate him if he doesn’t show up.

It’s supposed to snow later today, and though the gray clouds look laden with a storm, for now, it’s clear outside. There’s a crunchy coating of snow all over the farm, and the driveway is perpetually icy, which makes it hellish to maneuver Pa’s truck— his truck— when he needs to leave home.

Back inside the house, he makes a job of dusting off the mantel for no reason at all, or maybe just to keep himself from drinking at nine o’clock in the morning. He’s halfway through the job when there’s a knock at the door.

He halts. Poindexter Farm is not a place of frequent visitors, especially not now, now that its sole occupant is the 17-year-old orphan with no personality. There’s only one person who really ever shows up on the regular, and he has a hunch that might be who is behind the door.

So he waits. If it’s who he thinks it is, the door doesn’t need to be opened.

And then, from the mudroom— the sound of the door opening. “Dexy?”

His hunch was correct. It’s Kent. He sighs and leaves his rag on the mantel. “Morning, Kenny.”

There’s the sound of Kent’s footsteps, from the mudroom to the kitchen, and then he spots him. He’s dressed up for whatever he and Annie are doing today— probably hosting their family, because they have for years. His Christmas sweater is ugly, but probably in a way that’s supposed to be fashionable.

Kent flashes a grin and spreads his arms. “Merry Christmas!”

Will tries to smile. Really, he does. But he knows he looks pathetic, which just makes him want to crawl into a hole and die. “Merry Christmas,” he deadpans, then flicks his rag over his shoulder. It occurs to him that he’s still in his pajamas, and then it occurs to him that he doesn’t really care.

Kenny’s smile falters as he looks him over, and Will lets out a sigh. “Kenny, what are you doing here?”

Kent seems to gather himself again, once he’s over the initial shock of seeing his best friend in a state of general depressive disaster on Christmas morning. He puts his hands behind his back. “I’m here to bring you to my house.”

“Your house?” Will echoes, and when he nods, Will shakes his head. “No—”

“ _ And _ ,” Kent adds, “I’m not taking no for an answer. My mama says you’re welcome. We’re having an early dinner, and you can stay as long as you want.”

At first, Will says nothing. He crosses the living room and opens the door to the bathroom, where he tosses his dirty rag into the hamper. He hears Kent follow him, and when he turns around, he’s stationed himself on the couch in the living room. “My mom’s making her roast,” Kent adds, draping himself over the couch, like the prospect of roast is enticing (which, okay, Annie  _ does  _ make a really good roast, but leaving the house was not on Will’s Christmas wish list. He just wants to be alone.) “And Eric’s bringing pie.”

Will  _ almost _ asks what kind of pie, before deciding that he doesn’t care. “I can’t come over,” he tells him. “It’s your family Christmas.”

“Yeah, and you’re family,” Kent replies. “Or you may as well be. I’m serious, Dexy. You’re coming over. I will drag you if necessary.”

“Kent.” Will walks to the couch and stands in front of him. Kent kicks his feet up on the coffee table. His socks are bright red, like the stripe across the chest of his sweater. “I really can’t go to your house. I don’t have anything to bring. Or to wear.”

“First of all, false,” Kent says. “I’ll help you find something to wear. And second, you don’t have to bring anything. You’re a guest. My mom’s the host.”

“It’s your  _ family Christmas _ ,” Will protests, but Kent is unwavering. “Nope.”

“I’m not coming over.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I have nothing to—”

“What?  _ What _ ? I can’t hear you.

“Nothing to bring—”

“Huh? Say what? I can’t hear. Are you saying something?”

“Kent. Go home. I’m not—”

“You  _ are _ coming, because my mama says so.”

“I’m serious—”

“No,  _ I’m  _ serious—”

“ _ Kenny _ ,” Will says, a little too forcefully, and this earns his (at least momentary) silence. “I know you’re only here because you feel bad for me—”

“No,” Kent says. “ _ Fuck _ off, Dexy. I’m here because I’m your best friend, and because you’re not spending Christmas alone. I don’t care what you say. You’re coming to my house.”

When this renders Will quiet for a moment, Kent pauses. He tilts his head back, smooths the unruly cowlicks at the front of his forehead. Then he stands up and breezes past Will, making a beeline for the staircase.

“Hey,” Will says. “Hey. Where are you going?”

“To your room,” Kent replies. “To find you something to wear.”

Will rolls his eyes so far back in his head he worries they might stick like that.

But he follows Kenny up the stairs.

*

He brings his morning egg collection to Annie’s house. It’s the only thing he has to offer, and he can’t stand the idea of showing up empty handed. She thanks him, receives him with a hug, and ushers him into the living room, where she offers him coffee and what’s left from her and Kent’s breakfast.

Annie and Kent live alone, in a small apartment over the diner she’s owned for seventeen years. Somehow, even with their small space, they manage to host their family Christmas regularly. Annie has two sisters, Suzanne and Judy, and Kent’s cousin Eric is a few years above him and Will. He’s notorious for pie; he baked Will at least four pies after Ma’s funeral. They were all his favorite flavor, pecan, and they were delicious, and it was awful.

He expects dinner to be terrible, and in some ways it is, mostly because of the constant reminders of how very different this Christmas is from any other. His parents are gone, and he’s alone, and he’s never felt worse on a holiday in his life. But Kenny’s family is good to him, and they don’t pressure him to talk about things that will worsen the pain. Instead, they ask trivial questions about working at the diner and how the farm is, and it may be superficial, but at least it doesn’t hurt.

The snow starts after dinner. It comes down in dredges, and Will does the dishes to avoid conversation. Everyone is talking and laughing, enjoying their holiday.

These people are too good to him. He’s lost without his parents.

“Will,” Annie calls from the table, “you really don’t have to help clean up, honey. I can do all that when I get up. Promise.”

“It’s okay,” Will says. “I want to.”

He cleans dishes for an hour. The others offer to help him, but he turns them all away. The warm water dulls the shaking of his hands, and it’s a simple, menial task to distract from the cacophony of laughter.

Christmas. It’s Christmas. It doesn’t feel like Christmas.

He’s not right in his brain today.

Actually, he needs a drink. But that’ll have to wait— because he can’t get home in this storm. When the sun starts to go down, he parks himself on the couch by the window, watching it come down outside, hands wrapped around his second coffee of the day. The mug is warm. Eric is nearby, telling baking stories to his aunt Judy.

Will feels the couch sink down, and he jumps at the realization that Kent has sat right next to him. He speaks in a low voice. “You doing okay, Dexy?”

“No,” Will says, and it’s an honest answer, if nothing else. “But thank you for asking.”

Kent rubs his shoulder. “Anything I can do?”

Will shakes his head. He keeps his eyes on the falling snow. “Thanks for inviting me today.”

“Of course.” Kent pauses. “Anything you need.”

Will loves his best friend. He’s the brother he never had— and maybe, right now, the brother he needs.

Kenny asks, “Can I get you anything?”

“No,” Will says. “But thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Tonight, there will be pie and bad driving conditions and leftovers forced upon him by Annie. There will be a huge, empty house and night chores to do in the barn and two cows that always nuzzle him hello no matter how awful of a day he has. There will be a lonely Christmas tree he wants to take down, and photos of his parents on the mantel, and a fresh bottle of whisky that can dull some of the pain. There will be worse than this, and there will be better.

But for now, William Poindexter looks out the window, watching the biggest winter storm he’s ever seen.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I’m Mel! Come hang out on [tumblr](https://sincerelyreidburke.tumblr.com/)and check out my [nurseydex time travel AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22089940/chapters/52718095), set in this universe. :)


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